


Hate Story

by Dira Sudis (dsudis)



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-24
Updated: 2010-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/pseuds/Dira%20Sudis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Days like today, I don't just hate Fraser, I hate everything about him.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hate Story

**Author's Note:**

> This story was first posted May 18, 2003.

Days like today, I don't just hate Fraser, I hate everything about him. For starters, I hate him being so far away.

Not physically far away, I don't hate him for being up in the Northwest today; that would be pretty stupid - he would say passive-aggressive, and I hate that he would, and I hate that I know that - to hate him for going when I was the one who told him to quit worrying about me and just go, already.

I hate him for being so far away the rest of the time, when he _is_ here. I hate all those moments when I look at him and he's just not _there_, and none of this is touching him because he's back in some snow field, back behind the dogs, back home, back where everything changed. I hate that. I mean, I'm here, right here, in Chicago, in this gritty dirty hot smelly city, and even when he's right next to me, he's not. I really, really hate that. It's not that I hate him for actually being gone. I mean, it's not like I miss him. It's only been two days. You don't miss somebody after two days, that would be crazy. Fraser would say co-dependent. I hate that. Definitely don't miss him.

I mean, why should I, right? He takes off to the Great White North to attend his Grade Four teacher's funeral and booze with all his old pals and whatever else they do up there, and I get to work with an actual cop for a few days. Hartridge is a good guy, knows what he's doing and, go figure, he carries a gun, like a real live cop, so I don't have to be babysitting him every second. I hate that, y'know, I hate worrying about Fraser every time he's out of my sight, wondering what stupid situation he'll get himself into. Hartridge doesn't expect me to know what he's going to do without him telling me, or vice versa, which means we talk like normal human beings - and get this, he talks like a normal human being. And he's not Canadian, so we take turns being the polite one. Broadens my horizons, which is good; I hate how when I work with Fraser, we each got our little role and that's that, nothing changes. I hate Fraser for being this little voice in my head every time it's my turn to be nice, telling me how to talk to people. So it's fine, him being gone. Like I said, I don't miss him or anything.

I hate the way he looked from me to Dief before he left, and told us to look after each other, like I'm going to fall down a well or something if he goes away for three days, like he wouldn't leave at all if he couldn't leave the wolf to babysit me. So I feed Dief takeout every night and donuts every morning, and he tells me he hates Fraser for that too; he's a wolf, for God's sake, why should Fraser think he can't take care of himself?

Honestly, the Mountie's the one who needs looking after - knowing him, a simple funeral will turn into an illegal casket-smuggling racket which is incidentally looking to overthrow the Canadian government or something, and he'll be right there in the middle of it, all alone because me and Dief had to stay here and mind each other. God, I hate him. Trouble magnet, and not just the normal kind; no, Fraser has to attract the weirdest trouble in the Western Hemisphere.

I hate the way he calls at three in the morning, which even if he's forgotten about the time difference, which he shouldn't, is still a dumb time to be calling anybody, especially since it's Wednesday and I gotta be at work in a few hours, to tell me he's at the airport and his plane comes into Chicago at two tomorrow afternoon - meaning today. I hate how he doesn't apologize for the hour, like he knows that I'm just dying to hear from him, when he just called yesterday to check up on me and the wolf and he just left two days ago - and I hate that he's rushing back, instead of spending some quality time up north, like I'm going to go to pieces if he's not here. I hate how he doesn't actually ask me to pick him up, just tells me which gate, like it's beyond the realm of possibility that I won't be standing there waiting for him. It's not like I miss him.

I hate how he talks, when he's tired or he's had just one more drink than he meant to or maybe both, so very careful not to slur his words, so precise that you can tell he's trying too hard. I hate how he says my name when I take too long to answer a question, like he thinks I fell asleep on him in mid- conversation, repeating it like he's suddenly speaking a language where my name is the only word he knows. I hate that little not- quite-laugh that he doesn't try hard enough to stifle when I growl that I'm going back to sleep.

I hate how after I hang up, I can't get back to sleep.

I lay awake and listen to the mingled sounds of the running air conditioner and Dief's snoring, drifting in from almost exactly the same spot in the living room. I think about everything I hate about Fraser, like counting sheep. I hate him for endangering both our lives in wildly bizarre ways every chance he gets, but that's an old thing, worn smooth with repetition, not much of an edge left to grip on it.

I hate him for that night halfway into our adventure, when he zipped our sleeping bags together. I hate the calm way he told me we had to conserve body heat. I hate the way he was half a breath away from doing the math on BTUs and surface area and insulation to prove to me that, yeah, we really did have to share. I hate the way his eyes twinkled the whole time he said it, and the way he left me without a word to argue.

I hate the way he rolled over to me that night, tucked his face against my throat, and whispered a few words that changed everything.

I really, really hate him for that. Of all the crazy stupid things he's done to us... that was the craziest stupidest. I hate the way everything changed and nothing changed at the same time; we kept looking for Franklin til we ran out of ice, we came back to Chicago and kept working together, we still have the same stupid arguments and weird conversations. I hate all of it, so much I can't think straight, can't hardly breathe.

I hate how I remember the feel of his breath, fast and nervous, on my skin that night. I hate how I can almost feel it now, months later, alone in my own bed. Funny how an eighty-degree night can feel like being bundled into a sleeping bag, sharing body heat to stave off hypothermia. Too close, the night air pressing down like a couple of layers of space-age insulating fibers, and too hot is too hot.

I hate how I'm hard just remembering it, and I hate how when I touch myself I can almost imagine that it's him touching me, his fingers that know me as well as I do. I hate how I can remember two solid months of the sound of him breathing in my ear, and I hate how my own breathing, ragged and quick, sounds so lonely now. I hate how the little voice in my head is back, after, Fraser mumbling to me about the brain chemistry that explains why it's so much easier to get to sleep now. I definitely don't miss him after that - why start now? - or even hate him much, because after that I'm sound asleep.

Next day the hate is back, full force, spilling over from Fraser; I hate the way Hartridge just nods when I say I'm gone after lunch because Fraser's plane is coming in. I hate the way Welsh already knows that before I tell him, just walks up to my desk halfway through the morning and tells me to tell Fraser the station'll be glad to have him back, like he's been gone for months or something. I hate the way everybody thinks I miss him, just because apparently they do. I don't.

I hate traffic, and I hate the molded plastic airport chairs.

I hate how he's the last one off the plane, because of course you know he had to stand there and let every single other person off first, and chat politely with the stewardesses - except he calls them flight attendants, because all women are our sisters and we have to show respect for their really quite demanding job, Ray - and thank the pilot for a lovely flight and so on and on and on, so I'm standing there watching everyone else go by, watching all the hugs and reunions and everything. I hate that.

I hate him grinning so wide his eyes are almost squeezed shut when he sees me, and I hate the way he's walking so fast he's almost running, and I hate the way he practically cracks my ribs, hugging me. I hate the way he turns his head and sniffs my hair, because that is just weird; it's a hundred degrees outside already, and he can probably smell me just fine from three feet away. I hate the way I hug him back as hard as I can. I say "I hate you," in a choked voice, and I hate the way he smiles and says, "Me too," like he knows what I really mean when I say that. I hate the way he hangs on to me exactly thirty seconds longer than he should, for a two-manly-guys-in-public hug.

I hate the way he lets go.

I hate his jeans, so tight I'm not sure he didn't pack mine by mistake, and I hate his t-shirt, thin and faded and showing his arms and a little glimpse of collarbone. I hate his garment bag, with the serge all carefully packed inside, but I grab it off the luggage carousel and carry it anyway.

I hate the way he's quiet all the way to the car and on the drive back to the apartment, like he doesn't have a hundred new stories of Canadian wackiness to tell me, like there's nothing at all that needs saying now that we're actually in the same place again.

I hate that he's got two bags and probably forty-seven different pockets on him and still gets his keys out first when we get to the front door, and I hate the little smile he shoots me as he uses his key to unlock the apartment, like those two inches of steel are the best gift anyone's ever given him, and it's a present he gets to open all over again every time he unlocks the door.

I hate how he sets his stuff down neatly on the couch and says hello to Dief before he turns around and sees me watching him, and pushes me up against the counter and kisses me, hungry and hard like he's been starving for three days, until I'm gasping for air. I hate how he threads his fingers into my hair and presses my face down against his shoulder, and I hate his whole body hard against mine, keeping me pinned in place. I hate how he holds me still like a wild animal that might bite or bolt, and whispers in my ear, "Ray, I'm here, hey, hey, I'm back," until I come back, too, from this stupid crazy headspace I've been in for three days too long.

I hate - I mean, for real hate - the way it feels when I finally do, when everything twists around and I'm seeing clear again, and I know that it could have been like this for the last three days, too, if I wasn't so stubborn, so scared of this thing we got. It feels like falling. It feels like falling in love with him all over again.

I lift my head and meet his eyes, and he's smiling, because he loves me even if I'm stupid and crazy. "Missed you," he says, quietly, and I know what he really means when he says that.

I smile for the first time since I told him to go, and say, "Yeah, me too."


End file.
